


The Priest's Tale

by owlbsurfinbird



Series: The Cambridge Tales [9]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Careers Have Issues, Church teachings on homosexuality, College, Gen, Humor, Internal Monologue, Lewis Summer Challenge 2014, Priests, Self-Deception, faith - Freeform, summer job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James reaffirms his choice of vocation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Priest's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the_small_hobbit for suggestions, Brit-pick and beta-reading!

**The Basic Plan for the Ongoing Formation of Priests**

**Cambridge, 1997**

**"My dear brethren, since the captain of a ship and its passengers alike have reason to feel safe or else in danger on a voyage, they ought to be of one mind in their common interests. Not without reason, then, have the fathers decreed that the people too should be consulted in the choice of those who are to be raised to the ministry of the altar."--Rite of Ordination, Roman Pontifical, Part I, issued on February 28, 1962**

Priests. 

James groaned inwardly. He didn't notice them initially as their backs were to him as he introduced himself as James, reading Theology.

Hearing that word, they all turned as one to look at him. 

He was pinned to a board, a rare insect, four pairs of discerning eyes pulling back his being to examine him, layer by layer. _'The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, sprawling on a pin.'_ Good to know he could come up with a suitable literary reference.

Since his hen party experience earlier in the week, he had been practicing breathing techniques to keep himself from blushing. He hid his emotions from most people, but the level of observation at Cambridge went beyond normal. The tutors could read minds. 

These priests were no different.

James steeled himself. As he helped the usual spectrum of tourists into the punt, he decided to sit the priests as far away from himself as possible.

"We want to sit at the stern," said the oldest priest, apparently reading his mind. "Close to you, young man. I have a bit of trouble with my hearing."

James nodded, his expression pleasant though he felt doomed.

Though he wanted to be a priest, he had little contact with working priests except for those at college. He was a little leery of these men in black. Always had been. It was part of the reason he wanted to be one, to have that power, to have God and right on his side. 

And so it began. James tried to give the tour, tried to keep on topic, but the priests were erudite and asked insightful questions about the philosophy of the time, the political nuances of alliances, the architecture. 

For his part he had questions of his own: How old were you when you were ordained? Have you ever had another job? Ever kissed anyone? Ever been in love? 

He didn't dare.

The standard Backs tour recitation grazed the surface of hundreds of years of history. As the tour continued, the priests' questions became more pointed. It was exhilarating for James to show off his knowledge for once. He knew he had an attentive audience and he reveled in it.

He loved knowing everything. 

The tourists, for the most part, were content to be given the name of the building as they passed. Once they encountered the Pimm's punt, the tour was in shambles.

The priests offered to stand him a cup—he accepted reluctantly, only because they were having some as well. As he drank, he watched the priests have a wordless discussion. They communicated with a tiny nod of the head, a slight frown, a fractionally raised eyebrow, the minute curl of a lip. 

He had no idea what was being said, but the sense of camaraderie, of brotherhood, of belonging was enviable. 

James wondered if they were choosing someone to perform his vivisection.

"So. Theology, then," the youngest priest smiled kindly at him. "Ah, historical research! You have the look of T. E. Lawrence about you. No? Law? Politics? Or perhaps you want to be a priest?" The priest inclined his head, encouraging a response. 

James experienced that insect on a board sensation again and took a deep breath. _'When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?'_

He said nothing and gave a curt nod, hoping that would suffice.

The young priest smiled politely, perhaps bewildered by the non-answer, and turned away.

He knows I have not been called to be a priest, Hathaway guessed. 

James sipped his Pimm's, leaned on his pole, and regarded the people in his punt. The priests sat with their backs to him, silent. 

Judgmental, James thought. 

Father, I may not have heard God's voice, but I have been guided by His hand to do His work. And though I slip, I have a penitent heart.

I would make an excellent priest, Father. 

I have forbearance. I didn't lose my patience with the willfully ignorant teenager from America. I didn't berate her, I was educating her. 

All right, I did ridicule her a little. But not nearly as much as I wanted to.

I have compassion. I care. I see how people struggle and when I can, I fix it. I took a young man on a punt ride that filled me with joy. Every time I was faced with the sorry dregs of humanity this week I thought of that to get me through.

No, you're absolutely right, Father. Sorry dregs of humanity is probably not the description a priest would use.

And I was forgiving of the shameless. When I was coerced into behaving rudely at that hen party, I—

Of course I was coerced, Father. I'm a spiritual being having a human experience. I really have not experienced earthly desire. 

Except for that woman and that man. But that was different. How? Well, it was a man. And I accept the teachings of the church that homosexuality is a sin. I was intrigued by the difference, the rich chocolate of his skin compared to my own. I was appreciating God's work.

But I'm above that sort of desire, Father. It was purely aesthetics. Like watching the play of light and shadow on summer dresses. That young woman's eyes and the lovely way her mouth looked when she smiled at me. Something I can appreciate in the abstract but never have. Why? Well, I don't do that. I never have, probably never will, and can we move on?

I would make a very good priest.

I witnessed a tribute to a beautiful friendship, Father. A loving relationship of thirty years. One man was dying, the other would have to go on for the rest of his life with a hole in his heart. Why does God do that? Give us someone to love and then take them away too soon? I don't understand why a loving God—

Well, it's a good question, isn't it, Father? I have wondered why God—fine. It's a divine mystery. You're right, if I want to solve mysteries, I should be a detective, not a priest.

I would make a good priest.

But I wonder if I will ever have that bond of friendship, the closeness brought by time and trial. A priest can have that, can't they? 

I know that priests can have some things of the world. Family—though I don't have that. Books—I have too many. I'd want to have a guitar. I'd play at Mass. Yeah, I own a pair of lavender socks but it doesn't mean I will wear them with my clerics. Even if I think it would be avant garde, I know it wouldn't be appropriate to the solemnity of my work.

I mean, God's work, of course, Father. The work I would do in His name.

James set down his empty cup and positioned his pole. They'd lingered too long and the other tourists were looking about, trying to find something different to photograph. He gave the priests a wooden smile of thanks for the drink, and continued down the river, his normal recitation temporarily forgotten.

No one was listening. No one seemed to care.

Maybe that was the point. To get people to care. People are basically good. It should be simple to make them see the saving of one's immortal soul as serious business. 

Except I would want to be a joyful priest, Father. I see all of you sitting there in the sunlight, uncomfortable, sweating in your black clerics, necks pinched by white tabbed collars.

It's a beautiful day. Did you see the flock of swifts silhouetted in the sky, careening madly around the spires of King's College? 

And look, they've planted saplings to hide that hideous modern building across the water. See how their leaves shimmer? Green and silver leaves turn in the breeze, the sweet scent of lime in the air. Beneath the bridge you can smell lavender and see tiny purple flowers floating on the river. 

Have you heard the sound of the water boiling aft as we move, the heavy swash of pole churning the river bottom? Did you notice how I punctuated my recitation with a thump of my pole on the side of my punt for emphasis?

Yet none of you are smiling.

Maybe all you see is how those young trees strain against their stakes as they try to bend with the wind. Maybe the collar has pinched your minds closed to the beauty of God's creations in the world. 

That would never happen to me, Father. I have to be different. I am different. I am much more than the man you see before you.

That's why I should be a priest.

**Author's Note:**

> People no longer approve the priest, that's left to the bishop. http://www.sanctamissa.org. For add'l current info on seminary, ordination, etc.: http://www.usccb.org, which includes the Roman Catholic Church document: "The Basic Plan for the Ongoing Formation of Priests."
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> The literary work is T. S. Eliot's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_


End file.
